Linger
by Mrs.Monster
Summary: From a Tumblr prompt: Established relationship. Molly is feeling weird/uncomfortable about Sherlock's fangirls. He reassures her.


**_(Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock. No copyright infringement intended._  
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**_Thanks to Emcee Frodis for the prompt which was: _**_Established relationship. Molly is feeling weird/uncomfortable about Sherlock's fangirls. He reassures her._

_**Hope everyone enjoys this bit of fluffyness.)**  
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**_Linger_  
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**,,,_  
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It had happened quickly.

John and Sherlock had disappeared for several days on some case involving government experimentation and a man named Henry Knight- Molly wasn't sure on all the details. When they came back, Sherlock was… different. A bit quieter, a tad less condescending. That's not to say that he changed completely or in any significant way; Molly would have hated that. She had fallen in love with his mind, and for _that _change would be a horrendous crime. But still, she couldn't help but notice that his tone was a little softer when they spoke, his manner a little more pleasant when they worked together in the lab.

At least he began saying _please _when he asked her for coffee. As a reward, Molly began making him actual _quality _brew, instead of cheap cups from the machine in an upstairs waiting room.

Three weeks after they'd gotten back, Sherlock came to her apartment near dawn.

There were no grand gestures; no declarations of undying love.

It had been simple, and sort of awkward and bumbling, but it had _lasted _beyond that night. Nearly eight months now; not a significant amount time by any means, but much longer than Molly had thought that Sherlock would put up with her.

Molly was in her sitting room on an overcast Sunday afternoon. Sherlock and John had just finished a case, and she'd been reading John's newest blog entry, despite the fact that Sherlock would give her a first-hand account later on. After he woke from where he'd literally crashed onto her bed nearly ten hours ago, and after she made him eat something substantial.

At the moment, though, she was feeling particularly uncomfortable. She should have known better than to read the blog comments by now, all of those _fangirls_, going on about her Sherlock and his best friend.

The ones with the depressingly pretty profile pictures, sometimes offering things that made her blush. And she had an extremely creative bedmate.

She wasn't jealous. Molly knew that Sherlock wouldn't take any of these girls up on their offers and that their fawning only irritated him. She also knew that he loved her, just as much as she loved him, if not more. While Molly had always been an open-hearted person, it took much more for Sherlock to let himself give in to that kind of emotion.

Still, it was difficult to overcome a life time of insecurities and awkwardness. There were times when she couldn't help the odd cloud that sometimes drifted overhead when she thought of the many women who would be more than happy to step in and take her place.

With a heavy feeling in her chest, Molly closed her laptop and set it on the coffee table in front of her.

**...**

It was well after dark when Sherlock finally came around. Molly was sitting at her kitchen table eating when he made his way out of the bedroom, yawning and stretching, wrapped in a bright blue sheet. Sherlock dropped into the chair next to her and stole half of her sandwich, eyes still heavy with sleep.

"Feeling better?"

"Mmm," was all he said in response, around a mouthful of food.

Molly really should have known better than to attempt to hide anything from Sherlock. When he slowed his chewing, and shifted in his seat, she knew that he'd picked up on her foolish discontent.

Swallowing, he sighed softly before saying, "That ridiculous blog. Why must you always read the comments?"

Feeling more than just a little ridiculous, she answered, "I don't always read them."

"Hormone driven fantasies thought up by delusional women with too much time on their hands," Sherlock said, waving a hand, taking another bite of his pilfered sandwich.

Molly wanted to be upset at his easy dismissal of her feelings on the subject, but she also knew that he just didn't _understand. _They shared the crisps she'd piled on her plate in silence.

When the empty plate was pushed away, Sherlock touched the back of her hand. His fingertips, hardened from years of violin, traced the small bones there. She could feel tiny granules of salt on his skin from the crisps.

"You're the only person I've ever wanted to touch," he said suddenly. The bones in her hand lead to the delicate ones in her wrist, and he stroked along them.

Molly looked at him then, away from the tabletop.

Hair was still mussed from sleep, and he was naked under the sheet he'd wrapped himself in. Sherlock was looking directly at her, no longer leery over speaking of feelings when they were alone.

"Did you know that?"

She nodded, biting her lower lip. She did know that.

Sherlock leaned forward, sheet falling away from his shoulders. He slipped his hand along the base of her skull, under the heavy fall of her hair. Softly, he kissed her, his lips sweeping against her own. More salt there, and smoke from where he'd sneaked a cigarette.

"You're the only one I've ever wanted to kiss." The words were muffled against her lips just before he did so again.

The weight in Molly's chest lightened by half.

Hands cupping her face, Sherlock continued to kiss her, his chest bare and pressed against hers. Maybe he understood more than she gave him credit for, or he was beginning to at any rate.

These feelings that sometimes came over her were unfounded, and she knew it. It took more than a pretty face to affect her detective, and she knew that too. It took trust, and intelligence, and loyalty. Molly had given these things to him years before he saw her as anything as Doctor Hooper, pathologist.

Slipping down the slope of her shoulder and the length of her arm, he took her hand, their fingers forming a knot.

When their lips parted, he stayed close enough for the end of their noses to touch.

He said, "In thirty five years, I've never loved anyone like I love you. You're my pathologist. You're the sun that my earth revolves around; my warmth and my light."

"Sherlock, you remembered your solar system."

"I thought that it may come in handy."

He smiled crookedly, and she gave him a grin of her own before their lips met again.


End file.
